


Better To Burn Out (Than Fade Away)

by novelized



Category: Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Drinking, Drug Use, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21643954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novelized/pseuds/novelized
Summary: John gives him so much.
Relationships: Elton John/John Reid
Comments: 17
Kudos: 40
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Better To Burn Out (Than Fade Away)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Macdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdragon/gifts).



“God, look at you,” John says, the first time he undresses Elton, all fumbling hands and naked anticipation, dazzling smile and messy kisses, and Elton’s heart nearly beating out of his chest—

He didn’t know. That it could be like this. That it could _feel_ like this.

He’d spent long enough convincing himself that this sort of happiness was reserved for someone—better. Someone else. 

But John’s trailing kisses down Elton’s stomach like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be. Doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second guess. He must know that Elton’s never—but he doesn’t show it. It’s easier than he’d imagined. His body knows what to do. His body knows what to do to John’s. It feels incredibly right, being here. With John. Like this.

Afterwards, unable to believe his good fortune, he strokes a hand along John’s warm back, and smiles.

xx

John takes him to a lavish restaurant in London the night he turns up unexpected, says he knows the owner from back when. Waves away explanations, frivolities. He presents the wine menu to Elton and says, watching him, “What d’you think?”

Elton scans the list, with a blush creeping down his neck. He feels like he’s being tested. He’ll drink most anything, whatever’s near; never learned to refine his palate, doesn’t know the difference between good liquor and bad liquor, aside from the type that gets you drunk fastest. “Dunno,” he says, after too long. He points helplessly at a mid-range bottle in French. “This one sounds alright?”

John clucks his tongue. He reaches across the table, takes Elton’s hand in his own—casual, discreet enough to be nothing—and guides his finger all the way down to the bottom of the list. To the most expensive red. It costs nearly as much as the beat-up car Bernie used to drive them around in, and Bernie’d put his entire life savings in, just to get them to studio as often as he could.

“I’m sure it is alright,” John says, squeezing Elton’s hand once before abruptly letting go. “But you deserve the best, Elton John. When’re you going to start believing that?”

xx

It is a torturous few weeks of wait-and-see. John goes back to America. Elton hovers by the telephone too long, cancels premade plans too often. When he was seventeen and his mates started ditching him for girls, he’d never quite understood. Thought they were wasting their lives away when there was music to be heard, songs to be played.

Now he gets it.

Every tune he writes—sounds like John.

Bernie bites back a smile when he plays him the latest, something he’d drawn up in eight minutes flat. A new record. “Who’d have thought,” he teases fondly, “there might be a romantic in you yet.”

The first gift arrives not long after. Elton nearly tosses the package aside, until he sees John’s name on the box. He tears it open, then, breath caught in his chest. It’s a gorgeous wristwatch, gold-rimmed and flashy, expensive-looking, a handsome leather strap. _Yours,_ the note says. Elton’s heart nearly collapses. He refuses to take it off.

They meet again in New York. Elton plays a show; John watches from the balcony. Elton might as well have played for a room of one. They shag in a dirty broom closet not five minutes after, frantic and needy, John’s hand over Elton’s mouth to keep his noises stifled. Elton would’ve gone anywhere. Anywhere.

“You like it, then?” John says, when they’ve finished, tracing a single slow fingertip around the outside of the watch.

Elton swallows hard. “I love it.”

“Good.” John lifts Elton’s wrist and presses his lips against the skin just below the buckle, pulls back to admire. “I’d love to have a matching one,” he adds, raises his gaze to Elton’s. “Be sort of—official, don’t you think?”

In that moment, Elton would’ve bought John anything. He is absolutely intoxicated by the idea of having that with John, of being a couple in that way. Matching vacation homes in the south of France, why not. Matching yachts. Would’ve spent every pound he had. 

“I think that sounds wonderful,” Elton breathes.

He goes out and buys the most expensive ringer he can find, that next day. _Ours_ he writes, with the parcel. Kisses the box before he sends it. Doesn’t even care.

xx

It's incredible, Elton thinks. John just never stops giving.

xx

The house is outlandishly large, and Elton loves it. He loves how much John loves it. He loves that they’re doing this, that they’re moving in together, that it’s _theirs._ John carries paint cans into the foyer and Elton laughs in delight, imagines them rolling up their sleeves and setting to work, sweet and steadfast, almost like newlyweds, until a hired team of men trickle in after. John wants every room painted a specific shade; has ideas in mind for the furniture, the carpets. The decor in every room. “That will look good, won’t it?” John asks frequently, and a thrill runs down Elton’s spine that John—a man of fine taste—seeks Elton’s opinion out first.

His fine taste requires money. Elton’s money, specifically. He’s got enough of it, of course.

He’s nearly tripping over himself to pay up.

Because with every change, every new addition, every expensive piece of art that gets carried in, John gets more and more invested. Elton can see it. He is not just envisioning the future of the house; he’s envisioning the future of _them._ They’ll have a future. Bright and luminous, like this. Together.

“I love you,” Elton says, on their first night in the master bedroom, John lazily mouthing kisses down Elton’s shoulder. His heart’s doing somersaults, like the morning after the Troubadour, and almost every time since. John does that to him.

John pauses and shifts his hand down, his fingers gliding along the inside of Elton’s thigh. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. “Say it again,” he says softly.

Elton’s mouth is dry, and he’d hardly had a drop to drink. Fingernails bite into his skin. “I love you,” he repeats. It’s the first time, the first time to _anybody_ , and yet. He knows that’s what this is.

John’s hand moves up, up, up. Steady and sure. “Again.”

“I love you.”

His breath catches in his throat; John’s fingers press against him, searching. 

“I love you I loveyou IloveyouIloveyou,” Elton murmurs, legs spreading wider, until it becomes a stream of incoherent babble, until John’s twisting his wrist in a way that makes Elton writhe, until he’s panting against John’s open mouth.

It is incredible, because it’s John. Because it’s _them_. John kisses him long and sweet and lingering before he heads out to shower, and Elton lays dreamily in bed with his arms pillowing his head and doesn’t even realize that the entire time, the entire lovely time, John hadn’t once said it back.

xx

There is a housewarming party, at John’s request, and there are so many _people._ Some he knows. Some strangers. All of them overly-gracious, kissing cheeks and laughing loud and complimenting everything, _everything_ , from the paint trim to Elton’s shoes. He’s wearing a new ring tonight, a gift from John: emerald-crusted on his pinky, and everyone’s eyes are drawn there, and it makes him feel—proud. He’d bought John a ring too, not quite as flashy, but John’s not got his on. “It doesn’t go with this, darling,” he’d said, and Elton had wondered, a little selfishly, exactly what clothing existed with which diamonds could clash.

Still, John’s got a hand on the small of his back, gliding through the room, showing him off, almost. “This is Elton John,” he keeps saying, always full name, refills his drink every time he introduces him to someone new.

“You trying to get me drunk?” Elton says at one point, saucy, and John hushes him, smiles; doesn’t deny. 

He’s barely upright a few hours in. “Come to bed,” he whispers to John, comically loud, wriggles a finger between the buttons on John’s shirt. Scratches against his chest light, tempting.

“We’ve got guests,” John says mildly, and tugs his hand away. “When they’re gone, I promise.”

“Promise _what?_ ” Elton slumps against John’s side. Doesn’t care who in the vicinity can hear him. “Promise to do filthy things to me, hmm? Promise to put your mouth—”

“Elton.” John’s voice cuts sharp, and the words die in Elton’s throat. John gives him a look and then presses the pad of his thumb against Elton’s lip, but quick. Like he was wiping away a crumb. “All of those things,” he finishes, more evenly. “I’ll do all of those things. Of course I will. Have another drink. Have fun. This party’s for _you_ , you know.”

xx

They’d forgotten to close the curtains; Elton’s waking thought is to be angry at their lack of foresight, because his head is pounding, and his stomach is churning, and the vicious sunlight streaming into the room is only making matters worse. He rolls over, to goad John into getting up and shutting them, but the other side of the bed is empty. Had they gone to sleep together? Elton doesn’t even remember making it up the stairs.

A few uncertain moments later, the door opens and John comes bearing a glass of water and three nondescript pills. He's dressed already, pressed suit and coiffed hair, and he smells good: like woodsy soap and coffee. “Good morning,” he says, perches on the corner of the mattress. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like shit that’s been steamrolled.” Elton takes the pills, swallows them in one go. Doesn’t bother asking. “How are you so… alert? Tell me you’re as hungover as I am.”

John tsks at him like a mother hen. “You kept drinking longer after I did. I’m alright, actually.” He reaches forward, smoothes out a wrinkle in the duvet, and then strokes a warm hand down Elton’s cheek. “Try and sleep it off. You’ll feel better in a few hours.” 

Elton reaches up, curls his fingers around John’s wrist. “Haven’t we got that—that meeting? Financial advisor, summat, really important, you told me—”

“You stay in bed,” John says soothingly. “I’ll take care of things. Don’t I always?”

He closes the curtains before he goes, plunges the room into darkness. Elton’s last thought before he passes out is that he has struck fucking gold, with John.

Absolute gold.

xx

They’re recording an album in the fucking Rocky Mountains, the air so sharp and thin that Elton’s winded climbing up a single flight of stairs. Everyone’s a bit manic, he thinks, trying to pound out the next bit of genius, and he’s glad that John’s decided to tag along. Keep him grounded. “My fingers can’t keep up with my brain,” Elton tells him, a ball of crumpled lyrics in his fist. He’s usually got it by the third try; this one’s been agitating him for an hour. “I need—something.”

John considers him, for a moment. Then he takes him by the hand and leads him to the back of the lodge, wood paneled walls and plush green carpet and a mountain of white powder sitting atop the coffee table. Elton pauses.

He knew it existed, of course. But it’s never been presented so—openly. To him. Like this.

“Did you do this?” Elton asks, turning to John in surprise.

John shrugs, unruffled. “You want to work faster,” he says, “this’ll absolutely do the trick.” 

He prides himself on trying new things. Doesn’t ever want anyone to think he’s boring. Closed off. John would never lead him astray.

He bends over the table. Pinches his nostril, like John instructs. John stands behind him and murmurs soft notes of approval.

Twenty minutes later, he’s on the sofa with his head in John’s lap. He is acutely aware of every inch of his body. Music is thrumming through his body, and he can _feel_ it. A melody trickling down his ribcage. Bernie’s poetics coursing unfiltered through his veins. John’s sifting his fingers into Elton’s hair, and it’s making him shiver. “I’ve got to get up,” he tells John. “I’ve got—I’ve got so many ideas. I’ve got to get them out.”

“You will,” John promises. His hand stills against Elton’s scalp. “But before you go, hey?” He shifts his hips under Elton, just slightly. Just enough.

Elton eyes the door, foolishly cracked. Doesn’t know where the other guys are, where Bernie is, but they can’t be far. He’s warm all over. “Tonight?” Elton says instead, and turns his head to press a chaste kiss against John’s thigh. Thinks he might explode out of his skin. Into a burst of color. It’s wonderful. 

“Elton,” John says softly, “I’ve done so much for you, haven’t I? Can’t you do one thing for me?”

He’s right. Of course he’s right. Elton shifts over, fumbles with John’s zipper, and he’s suddenly so entirely captivated by the idea. By John. Gets his trousers pulled open just enough, and John makes wonderful, heady noises, and not for the first time in his life, Elton thinks—he would do fucking anything for John.

He would.

xx

The second time—oh, the second time is even better than the first.

xx

The next few weeks pass in a hazy blur. There are drinks, strong drinks, and there is coke; there is a beautiful, glorious mixture of the two. There are parties, and there are hangovers. More drinks. More coke. More parties. Repeat.

In the beginning, the parties would culminate with Elton and John in bed, some bed, somewhere; pawing at each other, drug-fueled and hungry, Elton waking up half the time with bite marks and bruises, scratches he can’t explain. But then: sometimes John doesn’t make it to their room. Sometimes Elton wakes up alone, disoriented; foggy-headed and sick.

Sometimes John brings boys to the house, under the pretense of a grand tour.

Sometimes John’s hand lingers on their backs. Thinks Elton doesn’t notice. Or worse: doesn’t care if he does.

He’s still at all of Elton’s shows. Sees him off beforehand, dry-mouthed kisses in dark corners; they still fuck in closed-off dressing rooms, in expensive hotel suites, on private planes, once or twice. But sometimes, when he gets off stage, Elton searches for him like a beacon at sea, first thing. Like he used to. This was _theirs._

Sometimes John’s not there.

The coke helps. It really does. Imagine that: another gift from John.

xx

John’s been gone a week. He’s pretty sure. He’s not positive that it’s Thursday—but if it is, then it’s been a week. No notice, no explanation. Just gone. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Out on _business._ Taking care of _matters._ What kind of business doesn’t involve him, Elton wants to know. What sort of fucking matters.

Elton’s still in bed when the front door opens. He slips out from the blankets—his head aches, but these days, it almost always does upon waking—and throws a robe around himself, heads downstairs to meet him. Thinks he might’ve flown off the handle, finally let John have it, except that John’s not alone. There’s someone with him, young and cute and smartly dressed, and he’s carrying in a massive parcel.

John barely spares him a glance.

“You’re not dressed yet?” he says, and then directs the strange man towards the formal dining room. “You’ve got to be on the road by one. Could do with a shower, too, I imagine.”

The man turns to maneuver through the door, and finally Elton can see what he’s carrying: a painting. A Taaffe protégé, he thinks, because he’s got enough of the original. Gaudy colors, and big. Expensive. He’s certain. “What’s that?”

“New piece,” John says, uninterested. “You wanted to replace the Schnabel, remember? Consider it an early birthday present.”

Elton’s birthday’s not for months. And he would’ve never wanted this. He sniffs. “You didn’t ask. I would’ve told you I don’t love it. Have that boy take it back.” 

John laughs, and it’s not at all the way they used to laugh together. That piece of them has gone. He’s no idea where it went. “Don’t embarrass yourself,” John tells him. “That _boy’s_ staying in the guest suite, by the way. Put some fucking clothes on. You’re going to be late.”

Elton opens his mouth to argue back, but it doesn’t matter; John’s gone through the door, trailed after the stranger. Always, these days, seems to be on somebody’s tail.

xx

It’s the worst hangover yet.

Because it’s not just his head, this time. Not just his stomach. The entire right side of his face is hot and aching; he’s got no idea why. A bottle of something dark has spilled out all over the carpet, and the smell of it is enough to make him sick. John’s there with him, which should make all the difference. John’s—

Looking at him with some sort of disappointment. Disgust.

He didn’t used to look at Elton like that.

He wonders when it changed.

There was—some sort of event last night, he thinks. He’s fuzzy on the details. There was a show, and there was John; there were drinks. There was—an argument? John’s voice clipped. Elton’s voice not. He thinks he’d begged John to fuck him against the wall of the dressing room. Then again, maybe he hadn’t. John had said something about ticket sales, he remembers. He remembers that for sure. Something biting and bitter, and Elton—Elton had snapped back. _Whose money_ , he remembers, a refrain. Whose _fucking_ money. John’s hands around his wrists, pinning him, breath heavy against his neck. Or—was it later, John’s hands around his wrists, pinning him, spitting venom in his face. He can’t remember. He can’t remember. 

He rolls over in bed. Naked and sore; he’s going to have to stumble his way to the toilet, if he can make it all the way there on his own.

“God, look at you,” John says, voice sleek and low with contempt.

He hasn't got much choice. Elton turns away.

**Author's Note:**

> happy yuletide, macdragon x


End file.
